


Notice Of...

by Thimblerig



Series: Musketeer Shorts [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Emotional Constipation, Gen, Kink Meme, The Red Tape of Bureaucracy, Vengeful Wills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:11:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5388710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: The will has gone through a lot of redrafts since Athos came to Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notice Of...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cat_13145 (LJ)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cat_13145+%28LJ%29).



> For cat_13145, with the hope that it pleases.

The first d'Artagnan knew about it was when Constance wrapped her arms around him in the marketplace. "What brought this on?" he smiled. It was pleasant to be held so tight, even though his side still burned from being shot not long ago. Constance was warm and a little squishy in that agreeably feminine way - but then he realised that she was shaking.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" Constance sobbed. Nearby, a boy with a barrow of turnips eyed them sourly and manoeuvred awkwardly around them. Two kerchiefed fishwives stared at them and began to talk, nodding their heads seriously. D'Artagnan put his hands on her shoulders and reluctantly stepped back.

"Tell you what? I agreed to keep my distance... unless... has something happened to Bonacieux?"

She shook her head, clutching a slip of paper. "A-Athos."

He gently took the paper and opened out the folds - in fussy, close-written script it invited 'Madame Bonacieux, on the rue de Fossoyeurs' to a lawyer's office, for -

"A reading of his will? No, but, Athos is _fine_ ," d'Artagnan insisted. "He was out escorting some clerics to Tours with Aramis, they're due back today. He's, he's _fine._ How would lawyers know before I did?"

Tears ran from Constance's eyes, and the tip of her nose began to redden. It looked charming on her, as all her looks did, because Constance was beautiful and passionate and brave and loyal and - "It must be some mistake. How about I take you back to the garrison and you can see him for yourself?"

She sniffed outrageously (charmingly) and nodded. Truly, they were not far from the Musketeer's garrison. D'Artagnan escorted her with his best, most formal manners, as any gentleman might escort any woman in need, he could do that, he knew how.

"So, er, I never did ask when we first met. How _do_ you and Athos know each other exactly?"

Constance howled.

Well, maybe he couldn't.

At the garrison, they found Porthos coming down the stairs from the mezzanine. When d'Artagnan asked about Athos, his mouth curled down and his eyebrows furrowed. In the big man's hand was a slip of paper nearly identical to that of Constance. It was time for a cunning plan.

"To the lawyer's office!" d'Artagnan declared.

m~m~m

In the Latin Quarter, in the sober buildings where a musketeer's fine rig-out was looked at askance, they tracked down an ancient lawyer's office. Coming through the glossy black doors d'Artagnan, Const- Madame Bonacieux, and Porthos heard a familiar voice, soft, precise, and vicious, "As you can see, I have a slight cold but otherwise am quite well."

"Well," drawled Aramis cheerfully, "you do look pasty. Perhaps a course of healthful exercise and eating more than, oh, twice a week, would correct these little confusions before they begin."

"Don't you start," said Athos.

The lawyer drew himself up, tall, grey, and beak-nosed, in an elegantly draped velvet robe with a high ruff for a collar. "Boy," he said with dignity, "you have a grave. Your name is recorded in the city register of death. In two weeks you have not seen fit to correct either of these misapprehensions, or even have the decency to be in town when my clerk sought the veracity of them. If you do not care to keep Family affairs in order, someone has to!"

Constance threw herself into Athos' arms. He looked mortified, but his hands came up to her waist to steady her. D’Artagnan sighed. Once he had been the recipient of her hugs, even the watery ones. Finally, Constance unclung herself and, putting her palms to Athos' cheeks, she looked into his eyes and said, very seriously, "You scared me. Do that again and I will kill you myself."

"Madame Bonacieux," he replied impassively.

Collecting herself, she bobbed a brief embarrassed courtesy to all of them, and fled.

"Ah, yes," said the lawyer, "the... young _lady_ , with the bequest."

"Hey!" snapped d'Artagnan, offended on Constance's behalf.

The lawyer raised bushy eyebrows. "All very innocent I am sure," he said dryly.

Athos's eyes narrowed. The lawyer huffed, then looked away, shuffling through the papers on his desk, a legal document bound in dramatic red ribbon and a leather case filled with oddly sized scraps of paper marked with Athos' desultory scrawl. "Well, it's all tied up in the trust, in any case. As for your other holdings -"

"Enough," said Athos. "Deal with it." He turned on his heel and left. And that _should_ have been the end of it.

m~m~m

They hunted Athos to ground at the Pillar-of-Roses, ensconced in his favourite seat on the second floor, already settled with a flask of wine and a solitary cup. D'Artagnan and Porthos, somewhat jittery from the false news, merely wanted to keep eyes on their friend. Aramis, with the lawyer's case of rough notes tucked under his arm and mischief dancing in his black eyes, had other things in mind.

He dipped into the leather case and found a scrawl dated five years ago, written on the back of a bill for dry goods and horseshoes.

 _"'_ Everything to the devil,'" he read. "I like it. Succinct, to the point: a model of the elocutioner's art."

Athos ignored him, drinking deep from his beaker.

"May we?"

Athos sighed. "If you must."

Aramis passed the box in front of Porthos, who retrieved a slip from three years ago, a half-page of torn onion-skin paper: _"'_ To Aramis, my second-best swordbelt and the knowledge of what to do with it.'"

Aramis cackled. "I didn't think you'd remember."

"I was not _that_ drunk."

"Oh, you were," Aramis beamed. "But clearly possessed of superior constitution and mental faculties." He put a hand over his heart. "You lend me grace."

"You need it," grumbled Athos.

Taking his turn, d`Artagnan found, on the back of a roughly printed broadsheet, "'My father's sword to be smelted down, the jewels of the hilt donated to a fund for feeding the deserving poor, the metal that remains to be cast into a cup, the which to be delivered to one Porthos of the Hotel de Treville with the message, 'Not even over my dead body.''"

Athos smirked into his cup.

Porthos laughed. "Yeah, I was pushy back then. But I had two hundred pistoles in my pocket. Two hundred! When was that ever going to happen again? It threw my humours out of whack. Forgive me?"

Athos grunted.

d'Artagnan continued, _"'_ And to Aramis, his companion, my Latin grammar.'"

"That's cold."

Athos asked, blandly, "Would you like the book now?"

"'To Madame Bonacieux,'" read Aramis from the fly-leaf of a psaltery, "'If it still exists at the time of my passing, the box inlaid with mother-of-pearl and any contents. Addendum: To be administered at her sole instruction a trust composed of...' - So, how _do_ you and the delightful Madame Bonacieux know each -"

Athos plucked the paper from Aramis' hand, flipped it face down on the table, and stabbed his dagger through it. Aramis lifted his hands away. "No more jesting on that topic," the younger musketeer said. "Understood."

"This is not the time," said Athos, with a half-lidded stare.

On a sheet of paper, so clean and white that it must be new, Aramis read the words, "'To d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony I give my hat and my boots, if they should fit, and a reminder to use his head more often. His heart needs no help from me.'"

D'Artagnan blinked hard. Athos stared at the tiny window set into the arched wall of the tavern, as if pondering the mechanics of squeezing his six foot frame through it and bounding across the rooftops to freedom. "Well," d'Artagnan managed at last in a low drawl, "it is a _very_ nice hat."

The others nodded in earnest agreement, with particular mention of the feather in it, which all knew Porthos had envied desperately for years.

Then, _"'_ To Porthos du Vallon, of the King's Musketeers, the sword of my father, as a small token to the most inherently noble man I have ever met.'"

Porthos, tears streaming down his face, laid his strong arm across Athos' shoulders. He kept his gaze directed at the window, but did not shake it away.

"'To Aramis, Rene d'Herblay, the whole of my books and the care of my horse Roger, for I know well how he tends what he loves...'" Aramis, his voice husky, trailed off.

Athos shut his eyes and recited from memory, "'And to that woman styled Milady de Winter, formerly Anne de Breuil, my wife, if she should live and I do not, tell her - Tell her -'" His voice broke.

Aramis put down the paper and covered Athos' hand.

"She knows," he said.

"That helps nothing and no-one."

"But she knows."

**Author's Note:**

> The full prompt: http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=2358461#cmt2358461  
> So as a nobleman, Athos has being required to make a will. After the events of Musketeers don't die easily, someone forgot to tell his lawyers that their client wasn't actually dead, so they turn up to distribute the inheritance.  
> The will has gone through a lot of redrafts since Athos came to Paris  
> (I'm think the first one left everything to the devil or something along those lines, the second there's a bequest to Treville, Third includes Aramis and Porthos, Fourth (and most recent) contains d`artagnan ). The bequests are from back handed comments everyone else had almost forgotten about, but Athos hadn't.  
> Bonus if there is a very generous bequest for Constance's and the Lawyer basically treats her like he thinks she was Athos's mistress.
> 
>  
> 
>  _I have a slight cold but otherwise am quite well._ \- Nicked from _Pirates of Penzance_. What can I say, I like the classics.
> 
>  _My father's sword... two hundred pistoles..._ \- ref. to book!Porthos' inappropriate crush on the fancy sword hung on Athos' wall. (The crack about the Latin is another book ref.)
> 
> ...  
> ...  
> ...
> 
> You hear that sound? That's the sound of me _not_ getting my Yuletide story finished. Sigh. At least it's writing...


End file.
